"Because you're wearing a devil mask in some weird nightclub and smiling like a serial killer,” she reminded me.
I put a hand over my chest. "You wound me."
"It doesn't look fatal." She smirked. “Unfortunately.”
Christ. I liked her. I liked her way too fucking much already.
"Fine," I sighed dramatically. "You don't trust me."
"I absolutely do not,” she confirmed.
"Then I'll go first,” I suggested.
She hesitated. I watched curiosity and common sense fight behind her eyes. Curiosity was winning. I nodded toward the bartender. "I bet I can guess what you're drinking."
She crossed her arms. "And if you're wrong?"
I pretended to think. "You choose my punishment."
"And if you're right?" she asked, more cautious now.
I looked at her. At the tiny stubborn lift of her chin. At the way she kept pretending not to smile. At the way her fingers tapped lightly against her purse. I smiled slowly beneath the mask. "You hold my hand for thirty seconds."
"What kind of psychotic reward is that?" she hissed.
I stared at her. "Psychotic?"
"Yes,” she said, nodding.
"Thirty seconds of hand-holding and suddenly I'm a criminal." I laughed.
"You said it, not me.” She shrugged, pretending she wasn’t shivering with excitement at the thought.
I grinned. God, she was funny. And I realized something that made me go still for half a second. For the first time in four years... I wasn't thinking about Angelo. I wasn't thinking about Leo. I wasn't thinking about revenge.
I was standing in the middle of my club staring at a girl whose name I didn't even know. And I wanted those thirty fucking seconds holding her hand.
The bartender looked between us awkwardly. "So..." he asked carefully. "Drink?"
I didn't take my eyes off her. "Something sour. Like her mood.”
Her mouth fell open. “You are totally stalking me.”
I looked at the bartender. "She’ll have a lemonade, no sugar. Because she definitely isn’t old enough to have alcohol."
She froze. Then slowly turned toward me. I smiled. The bartender started making her drink while she narrowed her eyes at me. "You somehow cheated."
I looked offended. "Little girl, I don't even know your name."
"Then how…" She was glaring, and I was getting a hard-on.
"You hate being underestimated,” I noticed. She blinked. I leaned closer against the bar. "You walked in looking at everything like you were investigating a crime scene."
Her eyes narrowed.
"By the way, the age of entry is eighteen, but we’re still not going to serve you."
Narrower.
